


999

by Johniarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Battery - Freeform, Blood, Dark Sherlock, Detective Moriarty, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Teen John, Violence, physical assault, rentboy john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3940324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is a detective with NSY. One night, while he’s pulling a late shift, a young man stumbles into the building crying for help. Early twenties, blond, and covered in blood, he collapses to his knees before Jim can reach him. In the ambulance Jim refuses to leave his side; why the stranger means so much, he can’t really say; all he knows is that he needs to know who he is, and what happened to him. Multiple stab wounds, the paramedics tell him. Probably a fight at the pub. Something doesn’t seem right, though, and Jim won’t stop until he knows the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	999

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheshirecat101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/gifts).



> So, this came out a little different than I anticipated, and I hope the scene hopping is alright. A commission for cheshirecat101, based off [this photomanip of mine. ](http://jxhniarty.tumblr.com/post/116853119946/johniarty-au-999-jim-moriarty-is-a-detective)
> 
> No sex, but John and Jim definitely develop a relationship after this. 
> 
> TW for violence.

Long nights were the worst part of the Job. Detective Jim Moriarty sat at his desk, going through the paperwork for his latest arrest. Jeffrey Hope, the mad cabbie responsible for at least four deaths in London over the past months, finally sat in their custody. Lestrade made the stupid decision to bring in the Holmes bastard; the fact he paid off only irked Jim more.

Something about him just felt… intolerable. He had a special way of getting under people’s skins. Yeah, he was intelligent, but so was Jim - which is exactly how he’d known to tail Sherlock the night of Hope’s capture. Sherlock had several very clear tells which Jim picked up on years ago. The moment he stopped himself mid-sentence and told the officers to ignore him, Jim realized he knew exactly where to go.

Not that it mattered, as Sherlock got the glory and he got stuck with the cleanup. That was another thing Jim learned from watching Sherlock’s interactions with the other officers. Keeping your head down and your intellect to yourself made your life a hell of a lot more pleasant. Oh, Jim was shrewd, and Jim was brilliant, but he only let himself shine during interrogations and out on investigations. In the office? Around others? He knew better.

His pen scratched over the paper, the words routine, his hand moving entirely by rote. Bored, so bored he could barely think, if only -

“Help! P-please, help me!”

A desperate, pained voice screamed from the lobby. Did Lestrade forget to lock the doors? Jim grabbed his baton and stalked toward the sounds. The closer he drew, the more he could hear - pounding on the glass wall of Lestrade’s office, strained coughs, the panicked voice of a man..

No. A boy.

Blond, no taller than 5’6, a teenage boy sat on his knees in a growing pool of blood. His right eye was swollen and purple, and his thin lips were split open. One hand squeezed his stomach, and Jim saw blood pump over his fingers. Wounded, gravely…

“P-please,” he sobbed, turning his cobalt eyes to Jim. “Help me! I think… I think I’m gonna…”

_Die._

Jim grabbed his radio and tuned it to the emergency frequency, moving as quickly as he could. “I need an ambulance! Male, mid teens, possible gunshot or stab wound to the stomach. I’m at the station, please hurry!” While the dispatcher at the hospital chattered their comprehension, John tore off his jacket and pressed it to the boy’s bleeding wound.

“Hang on! Just stay with me, alright? We’re gonna get you help! I’m not going to let anything happen to you, yeah? Just hold on, hold on… Stay awake, please, don’t - “

The boy’s eyes closed. Jim swore he heard sirens in the distance.

* * *

“... Deep lacerations, but it didn’t come close to eviscerating him. The blood loss could have been devastating, but we had an ambulance near the station. It’s good he found you when he did, or else the poor boy may have bled out.” The doctor, clearly irritated at repeating himself for the third time in as many days, didn’t even need to look at the boy’s file.

Jim scrubbed his hands down his face, sighing slowly. It could always be worse. However, he still didn’t know the boy’s name, or who attacked him. He felt as if he were treading water. Three days without consciousness. Three days with Jim by his side, reading him the gossip rags and quipping about how wrong they were. Three days of Lestrade coming in to ask the same tired questions that Jim held no answers to.

“Thank you, doctor,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Hopefully I don’t have to ask you a fourth time.”

When he was alone with the boy once more, Jim pulled out the paper and tried to take his mind off the dead end facing him.

“... Where am I?”

Jim set his paper down quickly, glancing up at the pale body laying on the hospital bed. Awake, finally awake and able to talk, Jim could get some answers from him. In theory.

“St. Bart’s hospital. You came by the police station three nights ago, bleeding and battered. My name is Officer Moriarty, I was the only one still at work when you came in. If I’d gone home when I was supposed to…”

Clearing his throat, he leaned closer to the bed. If he hadn’t been working late, the boy might have died - but he didn’t need to know that.

“What’s your name?”

“Um… John. It’s John, sir. John Watson.”

“What were you doing out that late, John?”

John’s entire posture changed. He seemed to shrink into himself, putting as much distance between himself and Jim as he could. Blue eyes cast down, he shook his head.

“Nothing. Nothing, um, trying to get home. I was - I was mugged. Shouldn’t have been out so late, it’s my own fault…”

“They found a hundred pounds in the pockets of your shorts,” Jim said quietly.

Panicked, John jerked his head up. The wild terror in his eyes was enough to prove the clumsy lie, though John himself didn’t seem to understand.

“Well I - I didn’t give them the money so they must have stabbed me. I don’t remember anything after refusing, sorry, Detective.”

How could he coax the truth from John? From the money in his pockets and the state of his clothes, Jim had a pretty good idea of what exactly John was doing out so late at night. Aside from the hundred pounds he’d also found ten condoms, a bottle of lubricant, and a pair of police-issue handcuffs. Jim decided fairly early on not to ask about the cuffs.

“Johnny,” Jim whispered, gently touching his arm. “it’s alright. I’m a fair bit more intelligent than you’re giving me credit for, so I need you start over. With the truth.”

“If… If I do… Are you gonna arrest me?”

John’s voice trembled as he asked his simple question. It was a fair fear; if John was working as a prostitute, Jim would have ample reason to bring him in. However Jim wasn’t a cruel man, and he knew arresting the boy would only make it harder to learn about his attacker.

“No, I’m not going to arrest you, Johnny. In fact, if you tell me what happened, I’ll take you out to lunch. My treat. How does that sound?”

He watched the emotions flicker across John’s features; hesitancy, fear, distrust, and finally? Hope. Hope that, for once, he wouldn’t have to do anything in return.

“... I work as a rentboy,” John whispered. “I got kicked out of my house last year, and I - I didn’t know how to make ends meet. Some bloke offered me twenty quid to suck his cock one day. I was, I was huddled in an alley, trying to keep warm, and he stared at me for the longest time… I hadn’t eaten in a week, so of course I, I accepted. And I started actively seeking work. Things just got out of hand that night, I didn’t mean to get hurt. You hear it happening to others and you think, ‘oh but I’m careful’, ‘oh but I’m in a safe area’, and the truth is there’s no such thing as careful enough or safe enough…”

“So a client lost control?”

“I… I, um, I told them I couldn’t work that night. I was on my way home to the hostel, I was exhausted, and they grabbed me by the arm. Demanded I work, demanded I let them fuck me, or they’d hurt me. But I just - I couldn’t, officer. I didn’t have it in me. They’re sort of a regular of mine, and I guess they felt I owed them. They hit me, they stabbed me, and I only got away because some blokes came out of a pub and asked why they were pinning a kid to the sidewalk.”

John smiled a rueful, bitter little smile and looked away.

“I ran. I made it to the station, apparently, and now I’m here.”

Mulling over his story, Jim noticed the lack of pronouns. The lack of gendered pronouns, the lack of any physical looks, traits, or even the person’s name… John gave him nothing to work with.

Why?

“Thank you, Johnny. You’ve been very helpful. Now, I’ll leave you with my card, alright? Call me when they release you, and we’ll set up that meal.”

* * *

As he left the room, Jim couldn’t help but notice Sherlock lingering nearby, speaking to one of the nurses in hushed tones. Odd… he had no reason to be here that Jim knew of. His brother was healthy, his parents… had something happened with his landlady? She was a sweet woman, if a bit on in years. He hoped she was alright.

“Can I help you, detective, or are you going to leer at me all afternoon?”

Sherlock’s  low drawl roused Jim from his thoughts.

“Just wanted to say hello, Mr. Holmes. Have a good day.”

“... Goodbye, Detective Moriarty.”

* * *

“Are you sure you can’t tell me what they looked like, at least?”

John sat at the little wire table, bathed in warm spring sunlight. Jim could see just how beautiful he was, and how he’d come into his… profession. This was the third meal they’d shared together, and every time he tried to coax more details out of the sweet young man.

However, John wouldn’t budge.

Jim noticed things, however, whenever they went out. John always seemed guarded, eyes flitting about the street. Now and again Jim swore he caught flashes of dark curls, always hidden within the crowd. The boy’s terseness about his attacker aside, John was talkative, though sometimes he too caught sight of something and fell quiet.

What was going on?

“No, I, I can’t, officer. I’m sorry.”

“Johnny, they nearly killed you. I can’t protect you if I don’t know who hurt you.”

Sighing, John dropped his head and gave it a little shake.

“Sorry, Detective Moriarty. I just… I can’t help you. It’ll be worse if I do. He’ll find me, he always finds me, no matter how far I run.”

So John’s attacker was male. At least it was a start.

“It’s alright. I’ll let it go, for now.”

* * *

Another slow day at the station. Jim sighed as he went over evidence pertaining to an auto-smuggling ring. It wasn’t much to go on, but they might be able to make a few arrests. That was something, wasn’t it?

“... I swear, if he nicked them again…”

“Something wrong, Greg?”

“Met with Holmes at a crime scene,” Lestrade sighed, turning to face Sally in the lobby. “I think he stole my handcuffs. Again. They keep going missing when he’s around, and the bastard’s taken my badge before.”

_Handcuffs._

_Police issue._

_Dark curls._

It clicked, then, in Jim’s head. Why John wouldn’t open up about his attacker. Why Sherlock was at the hospital. That bastard was the one who hurt John so thoroughly, leaving him bleeding and on the verge of death. Black eye, split lip, god only knew what else he’d done to him in the past…

He sped past Sally and Greg, running to his car.

“Oi! Jim, where are you going?!”

Without giving them an answer he pulled out into traffic, eager to get Sherlock before Sherlock got ahold of John.

* * *

_“John.”_

_That low, bass drawl catches John’s attention as his trainers come down against the pavement. It’s been a long a day; he doesn’t want to work. He’s off duty, on his way home, and the last thing he needs is Sherlock showing up to pester him._

_Sherlock always pesters him. He never listens to ‘no’, and he’s so forceful and rough, but John needs the money. He has to work to eat, to pay the manager of the hostel, to buy clothes and condoms and other supplies…_

_“John!”_

_Sherlock’s large hand closes around his arm and John feels himself being tugged backward._

_“Stop it! Sherlock, I’m not working tonight! Leave me alone!”_

_“No. I need you, John. I can pay you two hundred pounds for your time and service.”_

_“No! Dammit, Sherlock, I’m tired! You can come by tomorrow, when I’m working, but not tonight! Please!”_

_A dark shadow flits across Sherlock’s sharp features. Oh, no… John knows he’s done something wrong, but he can’t break away from that iron grip._

_“And who are you to deny me, you filthy whore?” Sherlock snarls. “I own you. I buy your meals, I buy your shelter, I bring you gifts. You do not get to say no to me, John.”_

_“Fuck you!” John shouts._

_For a moment, he feels relief as Sherlock lets go of his arm._

_Then he feels pain blossoming in his skull._

_He moves so fast John barely registers the punch - Sherlock draws back again and connects a blow to his jaw, knocking him to his feet. Crying quietly, John tried to push himself back up, but Sherlock has him pinned like an animal. The pressure of his knees against John’s ribs is almost too much to bear._

_“I own you!” Sherlock bellows. “You are my whore, do you hear me, John? You are **mine** , and I’m going to rip the eyes out of every one of your clients who dares touch you! Stupid. Useless. Filthy.”_

_More blows, but with Sherlock straddling his prone form John can’t fight back. He tastes blood._

_“You… you don’t… own me…” he manages to mutter. “I’m…. I am not yours…”_

_Sherlock snaps._

_Warmth floods John’s body for a moment, before it drains away. He can’t feel his legs. His stomach. All he feels is cold._

_The knife slips out of his skin as voices break the chill silence - help, help, John thinks, but no words come out._

_Sherlock pushes himself up and stalks toward them, saying he was trying to help John, that he saw John collapsed on the sidewalk..._

_John sees his chance._

_He manages to climb to his feet and he stumbles away, toward the police station. It’s just a few blocks._

_He can make it, if Sherlock doesn’t chase him._

_He can… make it…_

* * *

Jim wrapped one arm around John’s shoulder as Lestrade clicked the cuffs into place. Sherlock glared at him, frigid eyes full of loathing. If he could kill a man with a stare, Jim felt certain that power would be aimed entirely at him. Still, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

“Detective Moriarty - “

“Jim, please.”

“Jim, I don’t… I don’t know what to say.” John glanced up at him, eyes red from crying. Listen to Sherlock’s shouted abuse had worn the boy down, until he was shaking and sobbing in Jim’s arms. He knew nothing he did could make John feel better, but putting away his abuser was a good start.

“Thank you works just fine, Johnny.”

As soon as he’d found John on the street, Jim told him everything. How he’d discovered Sherlock was behind the abuse, how he was going to bring him in by connecting him to the handcuffs they’d found on John, but they needed a statement first. If John worked with him, he could keep him safe.

And thankfully, John listened.

“... Thank you, Jim. Thank you for catching him. Thank you for, for helping me, and not… Not, um, turning me in. It means a lot to me.”

The car carrying Sherlock drove away, leaving them standing outside his flat as a light drizzle spattered down from the overcast sky.

“If you need a place to stay, John, while you find a safer job, you could always stay with me.

“You’d - you’d let me?”

Jim smiled down at John and patted his shoulder.

“Of course I would. I want you safe, Johnny. I want to keep you safe.”

“Then, then yes, please. Could we go there now?”

“... Yeah. Yeah, let’s go home.”


End file.
